


Catch Yourself a Cold

by 00kg



Category: Original Work
Genre: Caretaking, Common Cold, Domestic Fluff, Fever, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Sneezing, illness kink, lightweight humiliation kink i guess?, sneeze fetish, sneeze kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26839315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00kg/pseuds/00kg
Summary: Tristan is good at playing this game.Really good.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	Catch Yourself a Cold

**Author's Note:**

> oh, boy... wow. this is absolutely self-indulgent and i'm so sorry if you stumbled across this by accident. if you're not into this stuff, you probably shouldn't read it. mostly putting it up here because there are going to be very explicit scenes in the future and i don't wanna get in trouble on tumblr for it.

Waking up to the smell of burning eggs is unpleasant, to say the least.

Bryson rubs at his eyes heavy-handedly, fighting away the sleepiness that's trying to pull him back under. The strong, sulfur-like stench makes his nose wrinkle, but it helps him come to. He's not fully awake, but his senses are firing up, fueled by the promise of a charred breakfast.

When his bare feet touch the hardwood floor, he recoils. A chill runs up his spine. He grabs a sweatshirt left at the foot of the bed and pulls it over his head, taking a moment to snuggle into its warmth and resist the burdens and obligations of a routine Friday morning.

He's still left with tiny tremors, shoulders shaking as he gets up with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, but he shrugs it off. Literally. He forces himself to stretch with a couple of shoulder rolls, a few twists of his neck. It's uncomfortable, but he's never been an easy riser--early, yes, but with difficulty.

"The fuck is that smell?"

The offender is wearing an apron like a cape, spatula waving in the air like he's fighting crime. Or maybe he's fighting off the bad smell. Either way, it makes Bryson smile. It's crooked and small, but it's there.

"Breakfast," Tristan finally replies, a few beats after he removes the pan from the stove. Wispy tufts of smoke are still coming from the pan, and when Bryson looks at the so-called breakfast, he winces.

"Is this hell's kitchen?"

"Yeah, I know. Tried getting you up earlier so _you_ could cook. Three times." Tristan shrugs and sets the pan on the wooden trivet on their table. "You bitched at me. This is my revenge. You've gotta eat every last bite."

"Did I really?" Tristan nods. Bryson laughs. "Sorry. Really don't remember."

He pauses. The laugh hurt his throat. Now he's hyperaware of a tingle. He coughs once to experiment, coughs a few more times because the one sets him off. It doesn't feel good, and now his morning is starting to make more sense.

He's coming down with something.

He decidedly doesn't tell Tristan. Not yet, anyway. He hopes he won't have to. He flushes just thinking about it and busies himself with getting a glass of water. He wants Tristan to figure it out on his own. To watch him and to notice.

It's not that he loves attention.

In fact, it makes his skin crawl.

That's not to say he's shy. He's never been the shy type. Quiet, sure. Some days it's hard to get more than a few words out of him if he's not in the right mood. Observant and deliberate, introspective and contemplative. He likes to play out his role and nothing more. He hates to be the main character of his own story.

(Tristan says he's full of shit, that he's admired by many and envied by even more, but Bryson never really notices.)

He likes the days to pass without interruption. He hides behind his artwork and deflects public praise to the product much like how he tries to live like a blindspot in peoples' lives. He likes the thrill of a life lived in the backseat--of being the witness to it all.

When he takes center stage, every move and every word is exposed, and it changes the way the people around him act. When he cries, they comfort him. When he yells, they recoil. Their acknowledgement, their awareness and perception of his thoughts and feelings and actions always leave him a little distressed.

But when he's sick, their responsiveness and sympathy is absolutely _mortifying_.

It's _sinful_ how much he enjoys it.

Whether he gets off from being sick or the attention that comes along with it, he doesn't know. He doesn't care to understand it beyond what it is, but he loves to indulge himself with it.

And loves the way Tristan has come to understand it.

There's something so gratifying about the way it makes him uncomfortable. Physically, emotionally. The knowledge of others understanding the feeling of being unwell and weak, and them knowing that _he’s_ feeling that way, is somehow lewd and intimate and sensual all at once.

"--still asleep?"

He's pulled from his thoughts, and he's acutely aware of the heavy, empty glass in his hand. "Ah, huh?"

"You good? Still waking up?"

"Oh, uh. Yeah. Tired, I guess."

He fills the glass with water from the tap and joins Tristan at the table. He does more talking than he does eating. The conversation stays light, bordering on meaningless recaps, of Bryson being the worst driver Tristan's ever met, of wanting a break from work. All the while, Bryson pushes the burnt eggs around and mashes them into crumbles, spends some time nursing his glass of water. If Tristan notices something is off, he doesn't acknowledge it. Then again, it's probably no surprise he doesn't jump at the chance to eat the well-intended though burnt breakfast.

A handful of minutes pass smoothly when Bryson feels the first tickle. It's deep in his nose, not something he can rub out yet, but it ignites a sense of nervousness in him. He feels it climb, deeper and more irritating, and he presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth hoping it might quell the itch. He's not entirely sure if he _wants_ to sneeze or wants to will it away.

It's embarrassing, and that's part of why he likes it so much.

He can't hold it back for long. He consciously decides not to, anyway. He looks past Tristan as his eyes unfocus, brings his hand up a few inches in front of his nose like a shield. It's a half-assed attempt to cover, more just to hide the way his face looks. He can't imagine it looks pretty when he loses control of his nose.

" _Hahhh_... _Hahh_ ' ** _chshh_**! _Ahh_ ' _h'_ ** _shuhh_**!" He scrubs at his nose, then urgently holds his hand in front of it again. " _Hh_ ' ** _nngk_** - _chuhh_."

Tristan doesn't say anything. He doesn't look the least bit fazed. It's not as if sneezing is anything out of the ordinary, especially for Bryson. Even without allergies like Tristan's, he's always been a little sneezier than the average person. Strange or strong smells, bright light. Everyone who knows him well enough knows his nose is a tad sensitive.

He normally recovers from fits quickly, especially one so small for him, but today it makes his nose run. He pushes a knuckle up against the bottom of his nose and sniffs back the drippiness in short, sharp sniffs. It makes his nose tickle again, but he tries harder to hold it back this time.

Tristan is staring at him now. He looks expectant, like Bryson is supposed to answer a question, but he hadn't been paying attention. The nervousness creeps back in, and he holds his breath as his eyes start to water. "Sorry, I- _ihhhh_ \--" The tickle flares throughout his nose, even making the rims of his nostrils flush pink as if screaming for relief. "Gotta-- _hhnn_!" In a panic, he pinches his nose tightly between his thumb and forefinger.

" ** _Nngk't_**! _Nngk_ ' ** _gchuh_**!" Even the tips of his ears are flushed now. It's upsetting. Shameful. Exhilarating. The prickling sensation in his nose spreads throughout his body, and it's overwhelming. It's so strong that he drops his hand and aims the sneezes at his lap. A few of them topple over each other, a result of trying to hold them back in the first place. " _HH'_ _ **AH**_ _shuhh_! _Hihh'_ ** _CHH_** _'shuhh-_ ** _NGK_** _'shiew'uhh_... _Uhh'_ ** _kshie_** _uhh_!" 

He sniffles thickly now. His nose is starting to feel clogged, sounding wet and crackly against the swelling brought on by the excessive fit. A napkin is pushed into his hand just in time for him to catch another two sneezes in it. His cheeks flush deeper. His sneezes are never wet enough to need tissues. He's aware that Tristan knows that, too. The only time he's this drippy is when...

When he looks up, there's a glint in Tristan's eyes.

"Extra sneezy today, huh?" He says nothing more about the whole display. 

Bryson knows he'll have to work at it. Tristan's good at playing this game.

He moves on to talking about their plans for the night with Tristan's bandmates. A weekly and well deserved drink (or three) to start off a weekend, idle chats and dumb _would-you-rather_ s. Between dares and bets, sometimes it ends with them dragging themselves home in a drunken stupor. Sometimes they even all end up in the same home.

Meeting with Tristan's friends is normally something he looks forward to, but with a cold coming on...

He forces a feeble cough. Wonders if it'll be enough for Tristan to acknowledge. It's not, so he tries again. Disgruntled, he swipes at his runny nose with the damp napkin he still has crumpled in his hand, but Tristan lets him ride it out.

"I gotta take a shower."

Tristan gets up and takes away the pan of unfinished eggs. It's a silent way of saying he knows Bryson isn't hungry. Or maybe he knows it's hardly edible. He refills Bryson's empty glass with some juice from the fridge, the first declarative signal he knows Bryson is coming down sick, and plants a kiss to the top of his head.

"Should at least wear some socks when you walk around the house, you know. Weather's getting cooler now." He leaves the kitchen, but not before casually adding, "You'll catch yourself a cold."

**Author's Note:**

> more of everything to come, honestly. sneezing, cute sick people things, caretaking, explicit scenes... BIG YIKES.  
> hopefully if you read this, it's something you're actually into. i warned you!   
> :~D


End file.
